


kissed you once (you kissed me back)

by returnsandreturns



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Domesticity, Drinking, M/M, Shower Sex, i wanted to hear mickey milkovich use the phrase "monster cock"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 03:40:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3635229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/returnsandreturns/pseuds/returnsandreturns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I need to know, middle Gallagher,” Kevin says, from over the bar, planting his hands in front of Ian. “Is Mickey’s dick as small as we all assume it is?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	kissed you once (you kissed me back)

**Author's Note:**

> I needed so much more domesticity between Mickey and Ian and Svetlana. I needed it. Also, here's some weird fluff porn.

Ian likes drunk Mickey a lot because, since the very public coming out with the very public humping of a cop car and the very, very public screaming about liking to suck dick, drunk Mickey is like 75% gayer than before. Which is kind of saying something, all things considered. 

“I need to know, middle Gallagher,” Kevin says, from over the bar, planting his hands in front of Ian. “Is Mickey’s dick as small as we all assume it is?”

The handful of guys scattered around them laugh, and Mickey, who’s had a shot or five too many in celebration of his dad’s incarceration, says, “Only when compared to _his_ fuckin’ monster cock.”

Ian tries to hide a smile but is mostly unsuccessful, especially when Kevin gives him a look and says, “Damn, Ian, good for you. Wait—does Frank have—?”

“I try not to look at my dad’s dick, dude,” Ian says. “And it’s weird that you want to know.”

“Yeah,” Kevin agrees. “But still.”

Mickey’s staring at Ian now, turned slightly on his stool, looking like he wants to say something but has forgotten how to. Ian smiles at him, waits for Mickey to smile back before he pulls out his wallet to pay for the last of their drinks and nudge him towards the door. Outside, Mickey leans in to press a kiss to the corner of Ian’s mouth, and Ian’s heart does about three fucking somersaults.

“Hey, let’s go home, man,” Mickey says, and Ian wants to hold his goddamn hand, but he wraps an arm around his shoulder instead. To anybody else, he could just be helping a drunk friend home, but Mickey’s body is slack and loose against him and he pushes into the touch like he’s been waiting for it. It’s like—these last few days, it’s like Mickey’s just got tired of not being touched.

Ian likes that he’s smaller than him, likes that he can pick Mickey up, fuck him against a wall or help him into bed when he’s like this, pliant and tired. He likes that he can hold Mickey down and make him come so hard he cries and, if Mickey would let him, fall asleep with him in his arms.

Mickey is letting him.

He helps Mickey get undressed and they crawl into bed together and Mickey kisses him like he’s been doing it for years, like an apology, like a fuck you to his dad—kissing a boy in his house, maybe loving him. Ian thinks he loves him. Mickey doesn’t give a shit about anyone, so he’s gotta be fucking head over goddamn heels for Ian, to do what he did, to kiss him now and rest a forehead on his clavicle and go to sleep without fucking.

Ian says, when Mickey’s breath has started to slow down, “Just for the record, your dick is perfect.”

Mickey huffs out a laugh and murmurs, “Yeah, yeah, shut the fuck up and sleep, kid.”

Ian presses a kiss to Mickey’s temple, tightens his arm around him.

*

Most mornings, Ian wakes up at 5:00 or 6:00 to go for a run or just doesn’t wake up at all, tries to ignore the tap-tap-tapping rush of energy or the dread that will creep around his shoulders like a heavy jacket in the middle of summer, because he’s fine. Sometimes, he even feels normal. Some mornings, he wakes up with Mickey’s mouth on his dick or Mickey doesn’t wake up until Ian’s already inside of him, fucking him awake where he’s sprawled out on his stomach.  


He’s here and he’s in love and Svetlana has mostly stopped threatening to castrate him and lets him help with the baby and everything’s the best it’s ever been.

It’s just easier to feel things when he’s not high most nights, when he comes home to the same faces and his memories are more than mouths, tongues, hips, dark rooms and bright lights. The kind of bass you can feel all through your spine. It’s easier to feel everything around Mickey and sometimes that’s not a good thing, when Ian can feel rocks settling in the pit of his stomach and dragging him back down to earth.

Mickey never wakes up before 9:00, wanders down in his boxers to steal Ian’s toast and lazily bite at his neck, kissing his jaw—or he wakes up to Ian still half on top of him, trying to keep sleeping because otherwise he’ll have to think about why the idea of getting out of bed makes his stomach turn. 

This morning is a 5:00 morning, a six mile run around the south side until his whole body’s red with cold and his heart’s rushing so much that he can’t catch his breath when he collapses on the Milkovich front steps. Svetlana is sitting outside with Yevgeny, who’s wrapped up in one of Liam’s old coats, singing softly in Russian. 

“You are going to break your ankle on the ice and then freeze to death on a street corner, and I will be left alone to deal with our asshole husband,” she says, matter-of-factly. 

She’s taken to calling Mickey their husband, and Ian has a hard time pretending not to like it.

“Didn’t know you cared,” he says, smiling up at her from where he’s sprawled out over the steps, still gasping for breath. 

“You are tolerable, and Yevgeny likes you,” she replies. “He is an infant but he is a good judge of character.”

“He does kind of cry every time Mickey looks at him,” Ian says, and Svetlana laughs, a nice sharp noise. 

“He has a good brain,” she says. “He inherited that from me.”

Ian gets up and runs a hand over the soft knit cap on Yevgeny’s head, then goes inside to see Mickey sitting in front of the TV and drinking from the coffee pot. He grabs a glass of water and sits next to him, right along his side, and Mickey says, “Fuckin’ christ, you stink.” 

“Six miles,” Ian says, after downing the glass, gasping a little. “You should join me next time.”

“Ha, no thanks,” Mickey replies, propping his feet up on the coffee table. “I only run when I’m being chased.” 

“Well, you could join me in the shower instead,” Ian suggests, smiling straight ahead at the TV while Mickey pauses, both hands cupping the coffee pot. He sits it down on the table so the top clatters and what’s left in the bottom sloshes up to the rim. He grabs Ian’s arm to tug him to his feet and Ian lets himself be pulled, laughing.

They undress quickly, practiced at it, Mickey’s hands pulling off Ian’s t-shirt and Ian unbuttoning Mickey’s jeans in one swift motion. The water’s still warm when they get into the shower because Mickey’s brothers have been gone on some job for the last couple of days. They’ll show up again eventually to take over all the empty space, but for now, Ian can press against Mickey’s back so Mickey’s shoved up against the yellowing tile and he can lick and kiss at the back of his neck. 

“What do you want me to do to you?” Ian asks, one hand holding Mickey’s shoulder, the other sliding down to tease over a soft hip.

Mickey breathes in sharply when Ian’s hand brushes the base of his dick, says, “What the fuck do you think I want you to do, smartass?” 

“I want to hear you say it,” Ian says, not for the first time. He’s considering this therapy for Mickey, even though that probably makes him a huge goddamn hypocrite. Feelings therapy. Saying what he wants now that he actually thinks he’s allowed to want it.  


Mickey turns enough that he can look over his shoulder and meet Ian’s eyes. His face looks strained, but then Ian wraps his fingers around his dick and slides them down in one fluid motion and Mickey says, “ _Shitfuck_. Just—goddamnit, asshole, I want you to fuck me.” 

“Yeah?” Ian says. “That’s what you want?”

“Yeah, that’s what I fuckin’ want.” Mickey shifts where he’s standing so he can press back against Ian’s dick, and Ian runs his hands back up to grab Mickey’s arms, position them so his hands are pressed up against the wall and his back is bent towards Ian. They keep lube in the shower because there’s nobody here to stop them and everybody else in Mickey’s family apparently doesn’t give a single shit about whose dick he’s taking, and Ian fucks into him gently at first, pleasantly aware of how much time he has to take Mickey apart and still get to put him back together in the end. 

He hits Mickey’s prostate on the third thrust. He can tell because Mickey makes this noise, this blissed out moan that he used to hold back, and Ian keeps fucking up into him at that angle again and again until Mickey is groaning and pushing back with every movement. 

“How the hell is this still so fucking good?” he breathes out, later, when they’ve both finished and Ian’s washing Mickey’s hair.

Ian gazes down at him, shampoo in his hair, looking young and vulnerable. He could say a lot right now. If this were a few months ago, he’d say something about the size of his dick and Mickey would laugh and they wouldn’t talk about it again.  


Instead, he runs a hand over over Mickey’s hair, slicking it back, and says, “’cause it’s us.”

Mickey stares back for a moment before he’s leaning in to kiss Ian hard, fingers digging into his waist.

“Jesus fuck, that was gay,” he says, into Ian’s mouth.

“I just fucked you in the ass and that’s what’s gay to you?” Ian asks, laughing.

“Call it like I see it, man.” 

“Yeah, alright,” Ian says, not even trying to hide his smile as he grabs the shower head and puts his hand on the back of Mickey’s neck. “Lean your head down, I need to wash this off.”

He runs a hand down the wet expanse of Mickey’s back, and he thinks about the heart-in-his-throat panic he felt when he left the army, how he wakes up with it in the middle of the night and has to count in time with Mickey’s breathing to remember that he’s okay now. Of course he didn’t even make it out of basic and he still managed to get fucked up about it. He puts the shower head back and wraps an arm around Mickey’s middle and lets the water fall over both of them.

* 

Ian watches Yevgeny while Svetlana is at work, and while Mickey’s around, he shows him how to change diapers and how to soothe him and how to make him smile. They come to a sort of impasse, Mickey and the baby—they stop exchanging suspicious looks and, in turn, slowly start to bond. If Mickey thought Ian was being gay by talking about how good they were together, he didn’t want to goddamn know how watching him smile at Yev made him feel.  


(Warm. Really warm and a little terrified, but in a good way, the kind of terror that he associates with fucking in convenience store backrooms and falling in love.)  


Svetlana comes home one night to find Mickey asleep on the couch with Yevgeny sleeping on his chest, face hidden in his t-shirt. She stops to watch them for a moment then turns to Ian, who’s definitely not been watching them sleep except for how he absolutely has, and says, “Continue to make them like this, yes? It is nice to come home to silence.”

“Rough day?” Ian asks.

“Many, many dicks,” she replies, darkly.

“Been there,” he says, and she runs a hand over his hair for a moment, gently, before going to carefully scoop her son into her arms. Mickey stirs, turning so he’s on his side and facing the back of the sofa, which is invitation enough. Ian moves and fits himself behind him, curled around his body. 

Mickey wakes up enough to murmur, “Where’s the kid?”

“Svetlana has him,” Ian says. He breathes in the smell of Mickey’s shirt, cigarettes and sweat and fucking lemon pledge because Mickey’s started cleaning for the first time in his life. The Milkovich house has almost looked livable lately, brighter. They’ve been replacing the light bulbs. They’ve been opening the windows. 

“Wanna go to bed?”

Mickey’s voice is sleep-wrecked, sweeter than normal. 

“Nah,” Ian says, breathing in again. “Let’s stay here.”

*

Awhile later, Kevin stops them outside the Gallagher house and says, “You know, you never answered the burning question we all have. Does Mickey Milkovich have an amusingly small dick?”

“You could just ask Svetlana,” Ian suggests.

“Oh, I did,” Kevin says. “She said he had no dick and that he was just smooth down there, like a,”—Kevin adopts a terrible Russian accent for this—“Like a child’s plastic doll.” 

Ian laughs.

“Not satisfied with that answer?” 

“I need the truth, Gallagher,” Kevin says. 

“The truth?” Ian says. “You’re way too interested in other people’s dicks.”

That night, he tells Mickey, who looks mutinous for a few seconds before saying, “I’d fuck that guy up if he didn’t have kids,” and continuing to rock Yevgeny to sleep. Ian wants to tell him something, but he doesn’t know what, exactly—maybe that seeing them together makes his heart do stupid things, maybe that he feels like everything’s wrong a lot of the time but not this, not them. Instead, he shuffles close to press a kiss to Mickey’s cheek and watch while Yev’s eyes get heavier and heavier.


End file.
